


Sequins

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-09 09:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20850854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Spock has a difficult model.





	Sequins

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The machine catches, which is nothing new, because everything else in Spock’s life is going wrong, so why wouldn’t his sewing machine join in? But that’s absurd. His sewing machine isn’t sentient, nor is the abstract trajectory of his life. The fact that he’s slowly losing grip on logic is equally, if not more so, troubling.

Rolling up his sleeves, he lifts the pedal and slides the fabric out, carefully unpicking the last two stitches. Then he sets the shirt back into position. He needs to raise the hem by approximately two point three centimeters. He’s already removed the effected beading and pinned the fabric into place. Just as he’s started up the machine again, a weight drops onto the other side of his desk.

Spock doesn’t look up. Jim thrives on attention, so Spock needs to starve him of it. Jim Kirk is responsible for at least three fifths of the current problems in Spock’s day, and it doesn’t look like he’s letting up any time soon. The very fact that he’s _sitting on Spock’s worktable_ is unthinkable. He’s an animal. Worse, he’s shirtless. His chiseled bare chest fills up Spock’s peripherals. He’s still in the tight-fitting leggings Spock designed, even though he arrived at the studio dressed in his own street clothes and he could easily change back whilst waiting for Spock’s adjustments. Instead, he’s flittering around Spock’s meticulously organized workshop in a state of wildly inappropriate undress. He’s already completely decimated the painstaking order of Spock’s mood board and irreparably wrinkled three well-ironed dresses.

The worst offense is simply what he does to Spock’s _mind_. Spock really is trying to work. He’s _trying_ to concentrate. He spends a large portion of his life trying to be objective and rational in general, as _Vulcan_ as possible, even though he’s chosen a subjective, emotionally-driven field in a Terran-dominated city. He’s made egregious mistakes.

His latest collection won’t be one of them. He’s been working on it for seven months and twenty-one days. Everything has to be _perfect_. Jim starts whistling.

As levelly as he can manage, Spock says, “I would appreciate silence while I work.”

Jim stops whistling and instead comments, “It’s not that bad.” Spock doesn’t reply. “The length, I mean. I think it looked fine.” That’s precisely why Jim is a model and not a designer. Spock expects nothing less than the exacting execution of his vision. Jim adds, “Sorry I’m not taller. Maybe if you tried it on one of the other guys it’d look fine? Not that I don’t appreciate being your front man...”

“The situation is tolerable. This is precisely what model fittings are intended for.”

Although, his usual fittings just involve pins and marks. Then the models go home, he makes the larger adjustments, and is ready when they return to try again. They don’t usually stick around his studio during every single minor tweak, pawing at his work and testing his restrain. Spock’s _pon far_ isn’t scheduled any time soon, but he can tell it’s not comfortably far away enough either, and he won’t be surprised if Jim triggers it early. 

Jim shuffles closer and spreads his legs wider—his open knee hits Spock’s shoulder. Spock gently pushes it back, but the prominent bulge in Jim’s sculpted leggings is still too close for comfort. When Jim leans back, Spock can’t help taking in the way his muscles shift and flex, flat stomach going concave as his knuckles grip the back of the table. He always has to _lounge_ in everything, like some exotic pet that lives to rattle Spock’s cage. He tells Spock, “I really like this collection, y’know. I think you’re going to have a great show.”

Spock’s been on Earth long enough to know to answer, “Thank you.” But he still doesn’t properly look over. The last thing he needs is Jim’s gorgeous blue eyes bearing into him. The show will be spectacular, because Jim’s never done a show that hasn’t ended up praised by the press. Spock has the feeling that he’s considerably more professional around other designers. Around Spock, his beauty’s both a blessing and a curse. He’s the worst distraction Spock’s ever faced. He’s the best model Spock’s ever had. Though Spock would never admit it aloud, Jim’s also his living muse. 

Jim’s hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing lightly and likely for no other reason than to draw Spock’s attention. Jim leans down low enough to slot his face next to Spock’s, his breath tickling Spock’s ear. He asks, “Do you really do all that beading by hand?”

“Please remove yourself from my immediate vicinity.”

Jim snorts. He’s still grinning, generally good-natured, hazardous but spectacular. At least he’s not a complete hooligan. He does listen. He slides off the table and paces around to the back of the study, plopping down into a chair. His eyes stay fixed on Spock, burning and knowing. He’s both gorgeous and terrible.

Spock takes in a long, steadying breath. He closes his eyes and counts out five seconds. Then he opens them and, with a clearer mind slipping half into meditation, Spock gets back to work.


End file.
